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As the train approached Swindon, I struggled to control my excitement at the prospect of seeing my great aunt’s house, because it wasn’t my great aunt’s house any more, it was my house! I had held back from researching the village, because I wanted to see it for the first time as it was in the real world, not in an image someone else had posted online. Leaving the train at Swindon, I enquired where to catch a bus to my destination and, half an hour later, set off on the final stretch of my journey to the village of Ashton Mead. The bus meandered along twisting country lanes through gently undulating fields and picturesque hamlets. Having lived for so long in London, it was strange and wonderful to see fields and trees and gently rolling hills passing by the cloudy window of the bus. I d
